


Stand Down, Sammy

by ElleCC



Series: The First Two Years [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mental Wincest, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, Unrequited Pining (that we see)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleCC/pseuds/ElleCC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If his first year at Stanford teaches him anything, it's that "out of sight, out of mind" doesn't ring half as true as "absence makes the heart grow fonder."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand Down, Sammy

**Author's Note:**

> For checkthemargin's [First Two Years comment fic meme](http://checkthemargins.livejournal.com/56985.html), written for the following prompt from scarletscarlet:
> 
> _Sam starts going home with guys who remind him of Dean. It's not that he's ever wanted to fuck his brother before, but when he rolls over and sees spiky hair and long lashes through the blurry filter of a hangover, it eases a little of the homesick ache._
> 
> _Though maybe, uh, it hardwires the association in a way Sam starts to find problematic ;)._

Eight months in, and Sam’s found a handful of things for which to thank John. For his most difficult exams, he finds studying in the middle of the noisy student union both effortless and reassuring; growing up, sleeping three-to-a-room and often two-to-a-bed helps him tune out his roommate’s disturbing wall-shaking snores; and John’s ever-incessant demand that they be able to snap out of sleep and be fully aware helps on Monday mornings when Sam has Calculus at eight a.m. Sam doubts he’ll ever admit any of this to John unless someone’s holding a gun to his head (he considers rethinking that scenario, because it’s not out of the realm of possibility no matter how deep he’s buried in his collegiate safe haven), but all the same, he knows he’s picked up _some_ useful life-skills on the spiderweb of America’s back roads.

But today, a Sunday morning, a long night at ΔKE in the rearview, Sam’s cursing up a mental storm because it’d really be nice to be foggy and fuzzy and unaware, rather than sharp even through the headache, when he turns his head on the pillow and gets an eyeful of expansive back, deep with tan and spotted with freckles even though it’s only March. Sam wants to shut his eyes and at least pretend to be clueless, but this is the fourth time since Christmas this has happened, and each time he gives in a little more. Lets himself look. Lets himself enjoy. Lets himself run a hand down his own stomach, over his dick and let it linger. This morning he even goes so far as to curl his fingers around what he knows isn’t just morning wood—for one thing, under his fingertips he can feel himself getting harder—but the moment the body next to him moves, starts to roll toward Sam, and Sam is forced to look up and meet the bleary green gaze below still-styled morning hair, he jerks his hand away. Flattens it on his own chest where it’s safe and he’s almost able to banish the thoughts from his head, the blood from his groin. What he wouldn’t give for some relevant, purging Latin right now.

This bed is too narrow for the two of them, but Fratboy—Derek, Sam reminds himself, no need to be a douche just because he’s apparently as fucked in the head as he always worried he’d be—doesn’t seem to care. As he rolls onto his side, he shoves a leg between Sam’s. “Hey.” It’s almost a growl. Sam would like to think the tone’s solely due to the roughness of hangover and half a dozen shared cigarettes, but he has a feeling it’s natural. Sam’s never considered himself predictable, but he’s learning a lot about himself this year, and not all of it’s good.

“Hey,” Sam says.

“What the fuck time is it?” Derek squints and pushes up on an elbow. Sam gets a faceful of neck and stubbly chin. He’s shouting in his head to _stand down, Sammy_ , but the only reprimands when he ignores the voice will be his own, so he tilts his head back, drags his lips over Derek’s neck, and masochistically inhales the scent of smoke and the lingering trace of the guy’s leather jacket.

There’s a hand on his hip a moment later and a mouth on his dick about two minutes after that. 

He presses his feet hard to the sheets that are nicer than anything he’s ever slept on, and lifts his hips. His fingers scrabble and slip over Derek’s head. Gel crusts apart under his fingers, but the spikes stay spiky—Sam’s always wondered about the phenomenon; it doesn’t seem natural. Maybe not supernatural-unnatural, but definitely in the domain of defies-the-laws-of-physics.

He hooks a hand around the back of Derek’s head for anchor and brushes his thumb up and down almost compulsively. With his eyes only half-open, Sam gives in a little more. To the penetrating gaze watching him from under too-thick lashes, to lips stretched red and swollen around his dick. To the feel of a broad hand under his thigh, pushing his leg wide, even if its calluses are from a lacrosse stick instead of the grip of a well-used Colt 1911.

As a rule Sam tries not to lie to himself; he’s never seen the point. And he knows he’s not when he thinks about how he _didn’t_ think about this Before. Before he took off for Normal. But he thinks it must have been lurking in there somewhere, deep down, because shit like this doesn’t just happen overnight, and that’s what it seemed like. Surprise turkey dinner in a Palo Alto diner on December twenty-fourth, a newspaper-wrapped black-leather Moleskine journal pushed across the Formica, green eyes filled with home across the table, and suddenly it’s twelve weeks and four unnaturally narrow beds later and he’s still trying to find purchase in a handful of pillow-resilient spikes. He wonders if it’s homesickness gone wrong. He thinks maybe he should take a spin through the HQs at the library, wonders what Freud might say about this. Wonders why a blow job is no longer just a blow job but a postcard from middle-America with nothing but his name and address scratched in black ink.

Sam knows they were up past four fucking, but he still loses it in record time. A product of letting his headachey brain resolve the face between his legs into something slightly more angular, slightly more familiar. He drags Derek up by his neck and fits his hand around Derek’s dick. Here he lets himself get lost in the musky taste against his tongue, and it’s a small relief there’s nothing familiar about it.

He has his clothes on and his hand on the doorknob before Derek’s stopped panting. Sam would almost like to stay, at least long enough to grab some coffee, but he doesn’t want to lie to himself or this guy, let either one of them think anything past thirty seconds from now is a good idea. Sam has no problem with the concept of a relationship, but he’s pretty sure Derek isn’t what he’s looking for. Isn’t what he needs, deep down. He has doubts Derek would be interested, either.

“See you around, man.” Derek nods at him. He’s already half asleep.

“Yeah.” Sam raises a hand in casual farewell.

He’s down the stairs and out the front door without interference. 

After stopping for coffee before he heads to his dorm, he checks his phone for the first time since he found himself taking an offered beer and smoke from Derek. It’s not military-style coordinates he finds but an address on Emerson. The Creamery, he knows without googling. Sixteen minutes since the message came in, so he has fourteen more to get there before his phone vibrates again, with a message that’ll somehow shine expectant older brother irritation even in nothing but blocky black letters. 

Another thing he learned from John: three-minute showers, battle-ready in five. Since he’s not about to start lying to himself now, he knows he needs to walk in there prepared to protect himself. He thinks it won’t take much more than a glimpse of black and chrome, the smell of walking grease and leather, to break down his defenses, but he has to try. If there’s anything John taught him, even if his dad never would have guessed when his youngest would most need the skill, it’s to know your weaknesses so they don’t get you killed. 

Sunny March morning in Palo Alto, the last he thing he wants is to end up a bloody smear on fake red leather upholstery, wasted by familiarity and need, home staring at him across faded Formica.


End file.
